Orli scanned the text at lightning speed.
For a moment, she thought she might explode with rage, be consumed by shame, flee, or shout out her protests. But as that surge of fury reached its peak, her mind became clearer and colder than it had ever been.
"I told you!" Ron whispered to Orli, who was still reading the article.
"I told you not to mess with Rita Skeeter! Look, I don't like how chummy you've gotten with the old bat, but for her to write that you two were—were that sort of—"
He seemed about to utter something truly vile, but swallowed it back.
Hermione had also read the article. A flash of concern crossed her face before transforming into haughty, scornful mockery.
"This is the best Rita Skeeter can manage?" Hermione surveyed the Slytherins with a cold laugh. "And The Wizarding Weekly—Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite rag! So this is what passes for entertainment in Slytherin these days? Absolute rubbish?"
"If cheap sensationalism is all Rita has in her arsenal, she's hardly shown much talent," Orli replied with an equally dismissive smile, tossing the magazine back to Pansy Parkinson. The more she protested or lost her temper, the more credence she'd give to these absurd allegations.
"First me, then Hagrid, now Orli..." Harry stepped up beside her. "Well? Didn't expect your own Head of House to get dragged into this mess, did you? Even your thick skulls should realize by now—Rita Skeeter's nothing but a rabid bitch who'll savage anyone."
"Potter."
A familiar, silky voice drifted up from the stairwell—Professor Snape. His gaze fixed on Harry, eyes glacial.
"I heard you employing some rather colorful language—ten points from Gryffindor."
"Professor... I think you should see this..." Malfoy managed to extend one trembling hand toward the magazine in Pansy's grip. His movements were painfully slow, as if every joint in his arm had seized up.
Snape plucked the publication from her fingers—it was still open to the damning article. His eyes lingered on the headline for a heartbeat, then swept through the entire piece with ruthless efficiency. Orli felt as though her ribs were caving inward, crushing her heart and lungs into a single, aching mass. For an instant, she thought she saw Snape's face darken, but almost immediately his expression went utterly blank—his eyes hollow and vacant.
Occlumency.Orli recognized it instantly. She began employing the mental discipline herself, allowing her features to settle into perfect composure. That torrent of rage, humiliation, and mortification... all of it felt suddenly distant, locked away behind an impenetrable barrier in her mind.
"I don't believe the classroom door presents any particular navigational challenge," Snape observed, surveying the crowd clogging the corridor. "The bell has rung."
He flicked the magazine carelessly into the hands of a nearby Slytherin and swept into the classroom without another glance.
The atmosphere during that lesson was positively surreal.
Every student made a show of concentrating on their potions, but their pestles kept clattering to the floor or pounding aimlessly at their desks, missing their mortars by six or seven inches. Some had actually hammered small craters into their worktops.
Whenever Snape prowled near, they'd duck their heads so low they practically tried to bury themselves in their cauldrons. But the moment his attention shifted elsewhere, their eyes would dart back to Orli, flickering constantly between her and Snape like spectators at a particularly scandalous Quidditch match
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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